A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.

Oh steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam! Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream, What could make a doctor, with serious face, Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case? In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say, That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?'

The flush that attended his words was cold, Like a thing that happen'd—a tale that is told; And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind. While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep, The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep.

Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams; When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er The parts that their waking realities bore; Like the ghosts of departed returning again To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men. Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found Its way to his regular visiting-round; Now counting how long such a patient could live, Now giving a drastic purgative; It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile, The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]

His journey soon ended, his dreaming was done, And quickly dismounted the wonderful one. Save a handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small, No baggage or bag was he cumber'd withal; Right glad was his heart that he was not delay'd With porters disputing, and people dismay'd. At the first man he met, with a citizen's air, He propounded a question—it made the man stare; The answer was ready, the questioner bow'd, And hastily elbow'd his way through the crowd. 'Oh ho!' said his neighbor, as off he went, (The one that had wonder'd,) 'I know what he meant!'

At a house, (but I cannot tell which it may be, Though possess'd of an author's ubiquity,) At a house in that city, inhabits a maid, Who travels by spirit, and makes it a trade. That maid and her sister were sitting alone, Employ'd in some manner not certainly known; They might have been working, or reading, I guess, Or playing at cards, or back-gammon, or chess; Whatever employ'd them, a very loud rap Disorder'd their nerves like a thunder-clap.

The sleep-walker quickly adjusted her hair, Assuming the look she intended to wear, And toss'd on the table, as other maids do, Some 'work,' with the needle appearing half through.

One glance to see ev'ry thing properly plac'd; Or derang'd to exactly the limits of taste, Then, putting her chair with the back tow'rd the light, Prepar'd for the visitor, be who he might. The other, who play'd a subordinate part, Took the same little process, with little less art; And then was directed to 'ascertain straight What manner of person it was at the gate.' Oh! sleep-walker! sleep-walker! did you but know, Who the visitor is, that is waiting below. A leech in good practice, and wanting a wife, You'd think him a capital venture for life.

The sister arriv'd at the door in a trice, And the man that was waiting she look'd at twice: From the crown of his hat to the sole of his shoe, She look'd at him twice, as she'd look him all through. That hat was low and its brim was wide, But the sleep-walker's sister was not inside: And his coat was black and his breeches were gray, And look'd as a thriving practitioner's may. His bosom was clothed in a sombre vest, That aptly comported with all the rest; Each pocket contriv'd of an ample space For holding a portable instrument-case: But, far more than breeches, hat, waist-coat or coat, His own proper features seem'd worthy of note. His locks were grizzled, his beard it was spare, As he dieted ev'ry particular hair; From a long, long nose, one could fancy how well Its owner could practise his organs of smell; For it seem'd, as he breath'd atmospherical air, He perceiv'd what its physical properties were. His eye with occasional glances by stealth, Was plainly surveying one's bodily health; And in his thin fingers, there seem'd to exist A perpetual impulse to feel of one's wrist. Whatever he utter'd, his look was profound, And an odor of sanity breath'd all around. No difficult matter it was to see, That a person of science and skill was he.

Giving time for those matters that pass between A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen, And a moment beside for her womanish airs, We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs. With gentlest tread, as if ever before He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor, His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small, He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall. The maiden insisting on taking his hat, He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat: A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold, And (climax of qualities) not at all old. Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet, As she kindly invited his taking a seat, And sweetly she said what she had to say Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way. And then he presented himself by his name, And hinted the matter about which he came; He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food, Incidentally hoping he did not intrude, And then, (what all orators well understand,) Digress'd to the subject directly in hand. What was it the sister spoke low in her ear, It was plain she alone was intended to hear. But little the medical gentleman cared, Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.

'This aura-magnetica-making,' said he Is a process as simple as A B C, And very agreeable, certainly, where The patient is female, and passably fair: You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye, Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5] Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat, Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6] And now it is holiday-time with the mind, It hastens to leave the poor body behind; As mischievous urchins escape to the street, The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat. Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be Invented to rival the bonnet de nuit. But though I account myself fully au fait At dismissing the soul in a technical way, (Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine, A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,) I own that it never came into my head To try to converse with it after it fled; It might be unpleasant; particular folks Object to all species of practical jokes; And one might, with reason, resent being made, From a person of substance, an unreal shade. However, I think we had better prepare For one live spirit-walking—another affair. The patient appears well inclin'd to repose, Or rather, already beginning to doze.'

He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye, Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh. A striking resemblance there was in the face, To one that occasion'd his first-love case. Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget, With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet. 'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start, The caution was private—address'd to my heart.'

He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd, The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd; He hinted that opium, one or two grains, Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains. The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise, Look'd sweetly upon him, and—sleep seal'd her eyes.

'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease, And then let us travel, as fast as you please; Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?' (He thought he should take her thus unawares;) She said, without any demurrage at all, 'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall; Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide, And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.' A very round oath the physician swore, ''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore: No mortal could see through a six-inch wall— An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.' 'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh, 'I never did tell her, I'm sure—not I!' 'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt; Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.' The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind That he had such an one, but had left it behind: He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair, Not only what was, but what should have been there! 'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,) 'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see; I hope you'll go too, Miss—it is not too far; Beside, you have only to set where you are. The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,) Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!' But the sister assured him that no one, except Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7] 'She could not distinguish a word that I said, Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.' 'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may, I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8] But I'm at your door, and have given a knock, And some one is turning the key in the lock.' 'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect When turning the key would have any effect; The lock is a patent one, made with such skill, It never yet work'd, and I fear never will. But why should we wait till they open the door? Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!' 'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun, With two pretty windows——' 'There is but one.' 'But one?' said the walker—'ah, that's very true; A somnambulist sees twice as plainly as you; But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.' 'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she; 'I mean, if you had one, how happy she'd be!' So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long, The likeness was striking—each moment more strong. Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart; A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!